


Through Seven Hells

by Frenchcroatiansquid



Series: Finished fic [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Asphyxiation, Drowning, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Multi, Nightmares, Public Humiliation, Public Nudity, Rape Aftermath, Regrets, Sexism, Sleep Paralysis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-24
Updated: 2017-07-12
Packaged: 2018-11-01 23:43:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 5,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10932477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frenchcroatiansquid/pseuds/Frenchcroatiansquid
Summary: The Hand of the King is visited by the ghosts of his past. Are they real or is he losing his mind?





	1. The Lady of House Silverfist

The first time he saw her, she was hidden in a crowd, just another face in the faceless mass of petitioners who came to ask justice of him. He wouldn't even have noticed her if it hadn't been for the way she had fixed him with her gaze. Men would cower when he locked eyes with them, but not _her_. She stared back at him, until finally, he turned his head, unable to face her any longer.

“You know why I'm here, m'lord,” she said when it was her turn at last, a faint smile on her lips.

Her hair was dark, and her face was sweet. She hadn't aged a day since he had last seen her. _This cannot be_ , he knew. Yet there she was, her eyes still fixed on him, relentless, unyielding. _Dead eyes_ , he thought. _The last time I saw her, her body was alive, but those eyes were dead_.

“I don't,” he heard himself say, “And I can't read your thoughts, so state your case or make room for the next petitioner.”

“You know why I'm here,” she repeated. “I want justice.”

Blood was dripping down her legs and onto the black marble floor. The faint smell of metal in the air turned his stomach.

“All the people in this hall want justice for one thing or another. Now tell me why you're here, or I'll have you thrown in the dungeon for making a mock of the king's court of petitions.”

This time, she laughed at him, a sweet laugh like the sound of silver bells. “You _know_ why I'm here.”

He raised his hand, and the guards stepped forward, grabbing the girl by her arms. But even as she was dragged away, she kept smiling.

* * *

It was still dark when he awoke in his bed. The first thing he noticed was the shadow in the corner, and he instantly knew there was someone in the room with him. He wanted to ring the bell above his bed, but try as he might, he simply couldn't move.

His heart started racing as he tried again and again to turn his body, to push himself up, to reach out with his hand just far enough to grip the cord dangling right over his head. But he was trapped in his body, unable to move a muscle.

All he could do was watch helplessly as the shadow moved closer until he could see its face from the corner of his eye. _You're down in the dungeons_ , he thought. _You can't be here. You're locked up_. Her smile was menacing now, her eyes like two pieces of coal glowing in the dark.

He tried with all his might to move a toe, a finger, anything that would break the spell.

She bent over his immobilized body, pressing down on his chest, slowly squeezing the air out of his lungs. _Struggle all you want_ , she seemed to say. _You won't break out of this. You're mine_.

He tried to shout for help, but all that escaped his lips was a soft gurgling sound as she choked him with the weight of her body. His lungs were burning and he couldn't breathe. The more he panicked the heavier she seemed to get. _I'll die_ , he realized. _She's going to suffocate me_.

He woke up drenched in sweat. _It was only a night terror_ , he thought. _A bad dream, that's all_. He took a deep breath.

But when he turned his head, the first thing he saw was the silver stag on his bedside table.

 _You're mine now_ , a voice in his head said. _I'll come back for you, night after night, until the debt is paid._

 


	2. The Red Lioness

He dreaded the nights.

One evening, he'd asked his guards to stay in his chamber while he slept, but they claimed they'd seen nothing. When he heard people jesting the Hand of the King was afraid of the dark, he'd taken the guards' heads and replaced them. He did not dare to have anyone stay with him after that.

When he asked Pycelle for dreamwine to help him sleep through the night, it was the Grand Maester who first raised the possibility of hallucinations caused by a poison. But his inquiries into who was poisoning him or how had led nowhere, and if there was poison in his food, his tasters and everyone else seemed immune to its effects.

At some point, he was convinced it had to be the spiced wine he always drank before bed, even though his servants had tried it many times and found nothing wrong with it. But refusing his nightly cup had only made it more difficult for him to fall asleep, and the less he slept, the worse his night terrors seemed to become.

He had even stopped eating completely for a while, but she kept visiting him regardless, torturing him night after night, taunting him with her smiles as he tried in vain to move his limbs and fight her off.

Every morning, he'd find another coin by his bed until there were so many he'd lost count and felt his sanity slipping away like the silver stags between his fingers.

* * *

He couldn't say why when she finally stopped, but it had been five nights since he had last felt her iron weight on his chest. He still felt a sense of unease whenever he was in his bedchamber, but slowly, his mind was beginning to recover. He'd even started getting some work done again during the day.

He let his servants draw him a bath. The warm water soothed his anxiety and helped him relax just enough to allow him to fall asleep afterwards. Closing his eyes, he let his mind wander off, away from all the tasks that had accumulated over the past two moons and away from the terrifying nightmares that had plagued him for so long.

He never heard anyone coming, but suddenly, as if out of nowhere, two hands grabbed him from behind, pushing his head under water.

For a moment, he was completely disoriented. His throat clamped shut as water rushed through his mouth and his nose, burning him like fire.

He dug his nails into the arms that held him, his body thrashing in the water, desperately trying to free himself and push himself back up above the surface, but the grip that held him down was too strong.

He couldn't say how long he was under water, but it felt like half an eternity. Just as he thought he was about to pass out, he was jerked back up, coughing and gasping for air.

“How do you like the feeling of drowning?” A woman asked.

He knew that voice; he remembered it from his childhood: that cold, snide tone that always seemed to mock him. “You're... you're dead,” he spluttered in between coughs. _She's not real. She can't be_. “You're dead... I... I watched you die.”

“Aye,” she said. “You did. And then you drowned my family in their halls. Even my brother's enemies were sickened by your brutality, and they are hard men themselves.” She let out a hoarse laugh. “But _you_ , you shocked even them. I bet you're proud of it, too.” Without warning, she pushed him back under the water.

He could feel his legs kicking, splashing up water, as his hands grabbed the rim of the brass tub. From below the surface, he could see the contour of her head and upper body through the rippled water. _She's not real,_ he thought as his body went limp and the light above him turned black.  _She's dead._

 


	3. The Silent Sisters

He was coughing up water, half-conscious, his body hanging over the side of the tub when his servants found him. They quickly pulled him out of the cold bath, trying to calm him down as they patted him dry and dressed him in his bedrobe.

He wanted to tell them that someone was in his chambers, someone who was trying to kill him, but they didn't seem to care. _They believe I fell asleep in the water_ , he realized.

When he wouldn't quiet down, they called the maester. Pycelle, at least, was willing to hear him out. “Either the guards are playing you false or there is another entry into the Tower,” he said.

“I'll have the household guard put to the question,” Tywin decided. “And the servants as well.” _After they've searched my chamber for hidden entrances_.

“That would be wise, my lord. You should summon the Master of Whispers, too, see what he knows.” The maester handed him a cup. “This will help you sleep. I'll stay here with you for the night.”

He hesitated for half a heartbeat, wondering if the man could be trusted, but he didn't have much of a choice. All he wanted to do was sleep, clear his mind, forget what had happened. _If Pycelle wanted me dead, he could have killed me many times over_ , he told himself. He let his taster take a good long swallow of the wine before emptying the rest of the cup.

* * *

When he awoke, he found himself on a wooden stand, naked but for a long piece of gray linen cloth covering his body. The room was small and dark, with low ceilings and no furniture except the table he lay on. He tried to rise, but his body would not obey. He was locked inside his mind again, cursing himself for having trusted the Grand Maester.

Two women entered, shrouded in long, hooded cloaks like gray shadows, their faces covered except for their eyes. _Silent sisters_. One of them pulled the cloth off his body and started washing him with a rough sponge and soapy water. _I'm not dead_ , he wanted to yell at her, _I'm in here!_ But his lips remained closed.

The other woman bent over him, cleaning his face, the soap burning his eyes. Her veil had slipped, allowing him a glimpse of her face. He had a faint memory of those features, her tears when he'd sent her to be married to the Stranger, her desperate pleas. _First your mother, and now you..._

She seemed to notice him at last inside his stiff, frozen body, locking her eyes on his. _Oh, we know you're in there_ , she said through closed lips curved into a smile. _We know you're not dead._ _But how will we tell anyone?_ _We cannot speak._

 _You took away our choice to uphold our vows_ , her veiled sister joined in. _Even if we wanted to, we could not break them for you. They will see your body when you lie in state, and no-one will know. To the realm, you are dead._

It was only then that he noticed the third sister behind them, dressed in gray as the others. She, too, kept her face covered, but he recognized her eyes the moment he saw them, those radiant emerald green eyes. He couldn't remember how many times he'd drowned in them, many years ago, when his life still had meaning. _My love_. He wanted to reach out, touch her hand, hold her, tell her how much he'd missed her, but he couldn't even so much as blink.

 _I'm here_ , he tried again. _Look at me! The others can see me. Why can't you?_ He would have cried if he could have as she bent over his face, closing his eyes, placing two round pebbles on his lids.

 


	4. The Candlemaker's Daughter

He did not fail to notice how the members of the Small Council stared at him. It was the same way the King's Justice had looked at him when he had ordered half his household guard put to the sword, and the other half put to the question. _They think me mad_.

But he didn't care what they thought of him. He'd found a secret passageway into the Tower of the Hand, a door behind the hearth, and he needed to learn why it was there, who had known about it, what they were planning. The men he had sent down to explore where the door led had spoken of a maze of tunnels ending in the dungeons below the Red Keep. He'd ordered the door sealed.

“Go.” He told the Council. “Leave me.” One by one, they got up and left.“Pycelle. Stay.”  _I saw her. She was there._

The Grand Maester stopped in his tracks, turning around. “My lord. How can I be of service?”

“What did you put in my wine last night?” _She was there with the others._

Pycelle looked at him, uncomprehending. “I did not give you wine last night.”

“Do not lie to me.”

“I was in the rookery all night!” The Grand Maester insisted, suddenly sounding frightened, as frightened as the rest of them when they saw him coming.

“Whatever it was that you gave me, I want it again in my wine tonight.” He had seen her, he had to see her again, it had been so long, he had to keep trying. _Perhaps this time she'll see me, too_.

“I didn't give you any-” Pycelle began to protest, but Tywin cut him off. “Either that or your head on a spike.” He rose. “Choose wisely.”

* * *

The Grand Maester had collected himself when he came to see him later that night. “It is nothing special, my lord,” he said, handing Tywin the wine, “just some herbs from Essos and a drop of Sweetsleep to calm your nerves. The same as last night, just as you requested.”

He emptied the cup to the last drop. _She'll see me this time._

The sun was high in the sky when he woke, the taste of disappointment in his mouth. _Nothing_ , he thought. Whatever Pycelle had given him, it hadn't worked. All it had achieved was make him sleep unnaturally long hours.

He still could not go anywhere near the bath tub, but he called for the barber to shave him at least.

The blade felt cold against his neck. _What if he is one of them?_ He twisted his head to take a look at the man, and that was when the knife cut him. Blood trickled over his lips and down onto his chin. “S-sorry, m'lord! S-s-sorry, beg pardon!” The servant kept repeating as he pressed a cloth on the cut to try to stop the bleeding.

“Leave me!” He pushed the barber aside, and the man hurried out of the room. _I'll have to do this myself_. But he had no practice with the blade and ended up cutting himself several times over before he gave up at last.

* * *

He felt the eyes of the guards on him as he passed through the tall oaken doors leading into the Great Hall. Somehow, it seemed that no matter how many heads he took or how many he had thrown in the dungeons, the servants just wouldn't stop talking.

Every corner of the Hall was packed with people when he entered. The throne room could seat a thousand, but standing, it held many more. _Smallfolk_ , he noted.

As they parted to let him through, he immediately knew what was wrong. A _woman_  sat on the throne, dressed in colorful, low-cut silks, her face painted, his grandson's crown looking misplaced on her head. _A whore queen._

She rose, slowly descending the stairs, a smile on her face. “Ah. The Lord Hand is gracing us with his presence. What an honor, m'lord.”

He knew her voice, even though it had been decades since he'd last heard it. He had stripped her of her power the day his father had died. She had been older than him, but where he had aged, her face looked no different than the day he had put her on that ship heading for Myr.

“You've come far,” the whore queen said, running her fingers over the sharp blades sticking into the air. “Too far, some might say. Sitting the throne has made you believe you are the king, where in truth, you are no more than his servant.” For half a heartbeat, her face looked like Aerys's. “It is time to put this overmighty servant in his place, I say, show the world he is only a man like any other.”

He turned around. The faceless sea of people had closed behind him, watching with anticipation. _This is a dream._

The woman sat down on the stairs of the Iron Throne. “Strip him,” she said, sickening satisfaction in her voice.

Ser Osmund and Ser Boros grabbed his arms, while Ser Meryn unsheathed his dagger, making a cut in his tunic before tearing it apart with his hands.

“Unhand me!” He tried to yank free, but the Kingsguard were unimpressed.

“Best not fight it, my lord,” Ser Meryn said, an unfeeling smile on his face. “Or she'll have you whipped as well.”

Below the dais, people were snickering as the white cloaks pulled down his pants and smallclothes, laughing at his futile struggles.

_I'm still abed. None of this is real_. But it _felt_ real. His face was burning as he tried to cover himself. _It's just a dream. Only a dream._

The whore queen giggled. “Oh, but this is where you're wrong. This is no dream. I'm very real. We're all real. And we're not going away until we have what we came for.”

 


	5. A Princess of Dorne

Pycelle's head looked good on a spike. The old man had pissed himself when the King's Justice dragged him onto the scaffold, begging and screaming, denying he'd ever given Tywin anything: no wine, no herbs, nothing. “I didn't even _see_ you that night, my lord, please, you have to believe me! All I've ever done I've done for House Lannister!” He'd wailed.

 _Liars, all of them; I'm surrounded by traitors and liars_. The Spider had claimed they'd found him on the stairs to the Iron Throne, naked, bleeding, babbling to himself. But he only remembered waking up in his bed with a dull ache in his head.

The eunuch had giggled like a madman when he'd had him thrown in the dungeon. _And they think_ I _am the one who is losing his mind._

He spent most of his time between his bedchamber and his solar. Men would come to the Tower of the Hand to see him, and occasionally, he would grant one an audience. But he did not like the way they looked at him, how their sense of triumph at being one of the few to be let through would die in their eyes as soon as they saw him. And as if their scorn wasn't bad enough, all they ever brought him was bad news.

“The king has sent ships to Essos to find the Dragonqueen and kill her,” Kevan told him. There were dark circles under his eyes. “It is madness, sheer madness. We cannot spare the men. And he's started executing those who fought for Stannis on the Blackwater. We forgave them, and now this? Stannis is rallying his forces on Dragonstone, and the remaining lords have fled to join him again. I tried to stop Joffrey, but he had me thrown in the dungeon for a fortnight and threatened to take my head just like he took Pycelle's. If the Council hadn't managed to placate him, he _would_ have. It is bad, Tywin...”

When he informed Kevan it was him who had ordered the Grand Maester beheaded, his brother had started weeping.

“The Iron Bank sent an emissary to ask repayment of the Crown's debt,” Tyrion claimed. “Of course our coffers are empty, but I thought we might be able to settle their demands with gold from Casterly Rock...”

“I see you're no longer fit to act as master of coin,” Tywin had responded. “I'll have to find another man, I suppose.”

But Tyrion had looked more worried than distraught at his dismissal. _So it is true what they say about you_ , his eyes seemed to say. _So it is true..._ “If there is anything I can do for you, Father...”

When Maester Ballabar came to visit him later, he knew it was his son's doing. Tywin had informed the man that unless he wished to see his head next to Pycelle's, he had better stay away from the Tower of the Hand in the future.

* * *

Without the maesters' help, he was unable to fall asleep at night. _I should have asked Tyrion to bring me a skin of wine, at least._ But his son could be trusted no more than any of the others. _Or Kevan_. The thought of his brother working behind his back to betray him hurt more than he could say.

In the end, he must have dozed off at his desk. The fire in the hearth was almost out when the sound of a door woke him with a start. He could hear faint footsteps coming closer.

“Who's there?” He raised his oil lamp.

Right in the middle of the room stood a slim figure in a dress of shimmering orange silk laced with gold. “My lord. So we meet again at last.” Her voice was deep, firm.  _The Dornish whore_.

It was only when he got up from his chair that he noticed the two small children by her side: a girl with dark curls, and a fair-haired boy looking at him with large, fearful eyes. He still remembered the children's bloody bodies – how _good_ it had felt to wrap them in crimson cloaks to present to the new king. _A gift from House Lannister._

“I see you too have come back from the dead to taunt me.” He felt surprisingly calm. _I can move_ , he thought. _And she's too frail to overpower me._ He eyed the weapons on the wall.

The woman stroked the little boy's head. “Don't be afraid,” she told him. “He can't harm you this time. He's thinking about it, but he can't do it himself. He needs his _dog_ to do it for him.”

For a moment, he felt angry that even _her ghost_ dared to mock him. But he managed to stop himself just in time. _This is what she wants. She_ wants _to provoke me._ “I don't need to kill you,” he told her as he turned to leave. “You're already dead.”

“Yes, we are. But your dog is very much alive. We've brought him for you.”

He stopped, turning back around. The little girl was gone. Instead, his bannerman stood by the Princess's side, towering above them all. He took a step back. “Ser Gregor?” _Oh, gods be good..._

Clegane smiled. “You know, in all those years that I've served you,” he said, “I've always wondered if you would scream and beg like a woman if I forced you like one.”

 


	6. The Whore

The room was dark, his body sore, his mind blank.

His servants had wanted to open the shutters on the windows, but he'd screamed at them to _get out_ until he had run out of air and his chest burned so badly he almost passed out. They had fled, but Maester Ballabar had not been so easily intimidated.

“I need to take a look,” he'd insisted, and when Tywin refused to let him anywhere near him, he'd returned with three guards to hold him down while he examined his injuries: the bruises on his wrists, the gash across his face, a torn muscle, a broken rib. And the bloody mess, the bloody mess down _there_.

“This is a mystery to me,” Ballabar mused as he cleaned the wound. “I've spoken to the guards, and they insist nobody entered your chamber, but I don't understand how...how you could have possibly... You remember nothing, my lord?”

He shook his head. “Nothing.”

The maester took out a salve, rubbing it onto the sore, torn tissue. It was humiliating, but he was too exhausted to fight anymore.

“Get some rest, my lord,” Ballabar said. “The balm will help with the healing, but try not to move too much.”

Then, the maester was gone, and he was back alone in the dark, trying to push the memories from his mind.

But no matter how hard he tried, he remembered _everything_ : Ser Gregor's face, his inhuman strength, his own helplessness, the searing pain.

Most of all, he remembered the Princess's eyes. She had looked almost curious, a hint of a smile on her face as she watched him. “Scream all you want,” she'd told him. “No-one can hear you.”

The sound of footsteps tore him from his cruel memories. A hand touched his shoulder, long, golden curls swaying in front of his face. _Cersei_. The last thing he wanted was for his daughter to see him like this.

He turned around to push her away but stopped abruptly. The woman's large, sad eyes were green, but they were not Cersei's. Even in the dim light of his shuttered room, he recognized her immediately. Could it be true? _Do I truly get another chance?_

His pain was gone. He reached out to touch her face. “Is it you? Is it really you, my love?” _She looks so tired._

“My love?” She echoed. “ _My love_? Is that the way of it now?” The pain on her face turned to anger. “You called me a whore, don't you remember? You cursed me for our son. It was the last thing you ever said to me. This _thing_ is not mine, you said. Get out of my sight, you whore.”

“I never should have said these things.” He clasped her hand. “I've regretted nothing so much as these words. If I could take them back, I would. All I've ever wanted was to see you again so I could tell you that.”

She studied him in silence. “I can forgive you for calling me a whore,” she said at last, pulling her hand away. “But I will never forgive you for what you did to our son, what you did to all of our children.” She rose, her body fading into the darkness as she backed away. “All _I_ ever wanted was for you to love them. Why couldn't you do that, Tywin? Why couldn't you just love them?”

 


	7. The Prince Across the Narrow Sea

He lay in the alcove, his hands clasped around the black cup, his eyes wandering over the stone faces of the statues lining the walls. _Too many gods_. In the sea of faces, he'd made out the goddess Ellaria prayed to, and, oddly, that gave him comfort. _My love, I miss you_.

He'd never been a religious man himself, but the Many-Faced God and his priests had kept their promise. Even across the Narrow Sea everybody knew that the Hand of the King had turned as mad as Mad King Aerys, refusing to eat, refusing to groom himself, and screaming at anyone who dared to come near him. “Soon he'll start burning people,” some whispered.

 _It is time to finish this_ , he knew. He dipped his finger in the cup, watching the ripples it made before sucking it off. The water tasted sweet, like warm milk and honey, a taste of his childhood, a distant memory, the sound of chimes in the wind, the smell of sweetcakes in the air, the touch of his mother's hand caressing his face.

The candles at the feet of the Stranger flickered. “It will take more than a drop,” a soft voice said.

He looked up. The priest stood before him, his robe of black and white touching the smooth marble floor. “Only death can pay for life, and only life can pay for death, but the choice is yours.”

“Will my sister do it?” He asked. “Will she be the last person he ever sees?”

The priest shook his head. “Your sister is dead,” he said. “All we have is her face to wear. But you asked for a crueler gift.”

He swirled the water around in the cup. _Only life can pay for death. All it takes is a few sips._ But there was one question he could not push from his mind. “Did my brother know?” He asked the man. “When Doran sent me, did he _know_ the only coin you would accept as payment would be my life?”

The priest smiled. “We only deliver the gift of the Many-Faced God. We do not claim to know the minds of the living. The choice is yours, not your brother's.”

He dipped another finger in the cup before raising it to his lips, savoring each sip. It tasted of oranges and cinnamon, of lemon and cream, of candied dates and sweet summerwine, of everything he'd ever tasted and more. Once he had started, he could no longer stop until the last drop was gone.

The cup fell from his hand as the warmth spread inside of him. “I never thought I'd die so peacefully. My foes would laugh at me if they knew.”

The man cradled his head, whispering to him in a tongue he did not understand.

His feet touched pale pink marble. He could hear the sound of the ocean and feel the warm summer breeze on his face. His eyes roamed over the fountains and rows of orange trees. He had not visited the Water Gardens since he was a small child. _Ah yes, my foes would laugh at me if they knew_ , he thought as he seated himself by the pool, smiling.

 


	8. The Monster

They thought he could not see them when they watched him from a distance. They thought he could not hear when they whispered to each other. _Mad, mad, they're saying I'm mad. How long till he dies, they're saying, how long?_ He wasn't mad, but all their _whispering_ was driving him insane.

Only his brother still visited, sometimes sitting by his bed in silence, sometimes mumbling to himself – no, _praying_. _He's praying for me to die. He wishes me dead as well_.

“Kill Ser Gregor and bring me his head,” Tywin had told him. Kevan claimed Clegane wasn't in King's Landing, that he was in the Westerlands, but he _knew_ that wasn't true. “Bring me his head, Kevan.” The head never came though, and eventually, Kevan stopped coming as well.

Days turned into nights, and nights turned into days. It made no difference to him. The maester would sneak in while he slept and leave wine and milk of the poppy by his bedside.

But whether he dulled his senses or not, _they_ always found him. They found him when his mind was clear; they found him when his mind was clouded; they found him in his sleep just like they found him when he lay awake, staring at the ceiling.

He could hear the sound of steps coming closer. _Not again, please not again_. He drew the bed sheet over his head, praying they would leave him alone just this once.

He winced when he felt the hand on his shoulder, caressing him through the soft cloth. He wanted to push it away, but the touch was so gentle, so familiar. _Could it be?_ He lifted the sheet.

The woman's smile was warm, the first kind face to look at him in months.

She had been gone for so long. He'd been in King's Landing when she'd died, a boy of thirteen trying his best to act like a man. He didn't cry when they brought him the news, but her death had left him feeling hollow for days.

“Mother...”

“Shh, it's alright, I'm here for you. Everything will be alright.” She wrapped her arms around him, holding him, gently rocking him like she had done when he was little.

He couldn't say how long they stayed like that before she broke away from him at last.

“Stay.” He reached out, trying to pull her back. “Please stay with me just a little longer.” As long as she was with him, nobody could harm him.

“I will,” she said. Her smile was sad now, tired. “I've come to take you with me.”

She placed a gold dragon in his palm, closing his hand around it. “This is for you. I'm a Lannister by marriage only, but I suppose that counts.”

He stared at the coin. _Please not her. Not her as well._

“You are one of _them_.” Just saying the words hurt. “Another monster. You're just another monster.”

“No.” A tear rolled down her face. “You are the monster.”

 


End file.
